The Undeserving
by take-everything-and-more
Summary: Forced out of her forest seclusion to heal a wounded Lexa, Clarke brings them both to Polis only to be entangled in the political web she has snarled with her destruction of the Mountain Men. Clarke also becomes entangled with Lexa, and she isn't sure which situation is more dangerous.
1. Chapter 1

She had left Camp Jaha without a gun.

There was a point where Clarke Griffin had stopped healing people and started killing them instead. She was trying to find her way back to that person, and she couldn't picture her with a gun in her hand.

She had been on her own for several days now, waking each morning to pick a direction to walk in, keeping a steady pace through the wilderness until she grew tired, only to sleep and wake and walk again. It was late afternoon and she had kicked off her boots and was hanging aching feet in an icy creek, debating whether to throw the knife at her hip into the water when she heard the rustling of undergrowth and saw figures rising over the crest on the opposite side of the creek.

Clarke's body went rigid at the sight of the Commander, a hand at her knife before she remembered her peaceful resolutions.  
Lexa gripped her sword, hand tightening around it reflexively. The two grounders flanking her looked equally uncomfortable, though harder to read behind their face guards. Lexa's red cloak stirred slightly in the breeze, her eyes a stark and bleached green against the kohl surrounding them.

Lexa cleared her throat.

"You are summoned—"

"No," Clarke said, voice like a saw.

"I have been asked to—"

"No!" Clarke said, pushing herself forward to stand barefoot in the frigid creek.

"Clarke," Lexa said and Clarke gritted her teeth at the way she said her name, like she could cut her tongue on the edges. Lexa opened her mouth to say more and Clarke could see her struggling for the words. Clarke narrowed her eyes at the Commander and Lexa's shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly.

Lexa took a deep breath, focusing her steady gaze above Clarke's head.

"As commanded I have searched for Clarke of the skaikru. She could not be found with her own clan, or in the forests surrounding. She has either left the trikru lands or been killed by it."

Lexa's grounder escorts shifted uneasily beside her, "Heda—"

"What?" Lexa snapped, "Do you see something your Commander does not?" Her sword hand shifted, and Clarke heard the faint click of metal about to escape its scabbard.

The grounder ducked his head, "No, Heda."

"We make for Polis," Lexa ordered, already turning away from the creek, "fetch the horses."

"Yes, Heda," the grounder woman beside her said, an instant before an arrow shaft buried itself in her neck.

Lexa drew her sword and twisted to the side in one fluid motion, the whistle of an arrow streaking past where her head had been a moment before.

"Ona tri! Jomp op!" Lexa roared, as she and her remaining escort charged forward to meet the attackers dropping from the trees.

Clarke scrambled up the creek embankment, grabbing the fur cloak of an enemy with his back to her and yanking him backwards, tumbling him down into the rocky creek bed.

Lexa was spinning and weaving, sword a silver flash in her hands, face furious as she plunged her weapon deep into the chest of a man with an axe in each hand, his body arching painfully on the blade.

"Heda!" Her grounder called a warning and Lexa spun to parry the blade sweeping towards her head. Lexa kicked her attacker's leg out from under him, sending him sprawling to his knees. As she raised her blade to finish him, another assassin dropped from the trees, landing solidly on the Commander's back, dagger slashing from her shoulder to her hip.

"Lexa!" Clarke screamed, already rushing forward before she realized it. Just as the woman raised her dagger to finish Lexa, Clarke bowled into her, the headlong tumble sending them rolling sideways together, the assassin kicking and grabbing at Clarke the whole way.

The woman landed on top of Clarke and slammed a fist to the side of her head, her weapon lost somewhere in their tumble. Clarke's ears rang as the world spun. The woman grabbed for the knife still buckled at Clarke's waist, Clarke clawing at her arms and trying to twist away. The assassin slammed another fist into Clarke's head and sparks flashed in front of her eyes. The woman freed her dagger and Clarke grabbed for her hair, fingers tangling in matted braids as she pulled as hard as she could. It pulled her attacker off balance for the moment Clarke needed to punch a fist into her kidneys. The woman grunted from the blow, her body dropping slightly in pain and Clarke grabbed for her wrist, trying to wrestle the knife away from her. The assassin rained blow after blow from her free hand on Clarke's head and shoulders but still she doggedly held on. Clarke's world was just beginning to narrow to darkness when a force wrenched the woman off of her, body nearly flying backward at the ferocity behind the grip. Clarke panted from the ground as she watched Lexa, smeared in blood, her sword slick with it, slit the throat of the woman who had nearly killed them both.

Lexa spat on the body, sword hanging loosely in her grip, point slowly dripping blood. Around her lay eight bodies, ally and enemy alike dead.

"Lexa," Clarke managed to gasp.

Lexa pulled her gaze up to Clarke, the effort of focusing her eyes looking as though it took all the strength left in her. She rocked on her feet, sword dropping from her grip.

"You're safe, Clarke," Lexa said, her body crumbling forward.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke lurched to her feet, head still a spinning ache from the attack she'd endured. She did her best to shake the sparks and nausea off, stumbling towards the fallen Commander.

Lexa was breathing, but blood was pooling from the wound on her back, the material of her coat sodden as Clarke pulled it away. Clarke quickly recovered her knife and cut the rest of the coat off her, reaching beneath Lexa to unclasp her torn cloak and pauldron, the blood making her hands slick and shaky as she threw it aside.

She pulled the final remnants of cloth away and surveyed the wound. It was deep, but the cloak and thick leather of Lexa's armor had prevented the dagger from biting too far into the muscle. She could fix this. She could. She tore apart Lexa's cloak, pressing the fabric to her back.

"Lexa," Clarke said, putting her face near the girl's, trying to get Lexa's eyes to focus on her, "Lexa, I need something to close the wound."

"Vara," Lexa growled and Clarke shook her head, not following what she assumed was trigedeslang. Lexa gasped and pointed towards the fallen grounder with the arrow in her neck.

"She carried," Lexa grimaced with the effort of speaking, "the field kit."

Clarke stumbled to the dead grounder, half on her knees and panting with panic, tearing at the woman's armor. She finally found the pack buckled to her waist and ripped it open, eyes scanning for what she needed.

Dashing back to Lexa she reapplied pressure to her wound, blood still seeping from beneath Clarke's palms.

"Damnit," Clarke hissed. She tore more strips from Lexa's cloak and pressed them against the Commander's back, the fabric immediately staining a deeper red.

Lexa was muttering something softly in trigedaslang, her eyes open but staring blankly ahead.

"I swear Lexa, if you're saying your last rites or some bullshit about death not being the end, I'll track down your spirit myself and make sure you don't come back." Clarke snapped, pressing harder to staunch the blood.

Lexa made a sound that might have been some version of a laugh and closed her eyes.

"I stay at your will, Clarke."

Clarke shook her head, biting back the fear in her throat and forcing herself to calm down. The bleeding was slowing, and after several tense minutes she trusted the wound long enough to dash to the creek, soaking the bloodstained rags that were left of Lexa's cloak in the cool water and bringing them back to carefully clean the edges of the cut, rationing the vial of antiseptic in the field kit as best she could.

There was a bone needle in the kit, larger than Clarke would have liked, and thin cord. Lexa had lain silent while Clarke cleaned her injury, and now she watched Clarke thread the needle, green eyes tracking the movement of her fingers impassively.

"Is there anything in the kit for the pain?" Clarke asked.

Lexa frowned.

"Of course not," Clarke muttered, pushing the needle through the Commander's skin.

As expected, Lexa refused to flinch or make a sound. The wound was long though, and before long Clarke was wiping the sweat from her eyes with the heel of her hand and Lexa's shoulders had begun to tremble, fingers grasping the loamy earth tighter.

Clarke tyed off the last stitch with a shaky sigh of relief, hanging her head back to stretch an aching neck. Lexa sighed as well, her white knuckled grip finally releasing. Clarke hung her head, hand finding her way to Lexa's back again, tracing the many scars she found there; the even notches from kills and the sporadic lines of injury twining across her skin like a root system nourished by blood.

"You'll have an impressive scar from this," Clarke said, palm still pressed against Lexa's skin for reasons she could not begin to explain, "Too bad it isn't a victory scar."

Lexa huffed, "My people will think I have killed a giant."

Clarke raised an eyebrow and shook her head, "You must have lost more blood than I thought."

Lexa levered herself up on her elbows.

"What are you doing?"

"We cannot stay here, Clarke," Lexa said, teeth gritted in determination, "It isn't safe."

Clarke shook her head incredulously, pressing a hand to Lexa's shoulder to forestall more argument, "You can't move."

Lexa frowned and looked into Clarke's eyes, the smallest edge of uncertainty and vulnerability in her gaze, "I can if you help me."

Clarke met her gaze, mistrust making her want to look away, bitterness making her want to bare her teeth. But Clarke was trying to find the healer inside herself again. She stood and looked into the forest.

"I'll get the horses."

"Clarke," Lexa said.

"What?" Clarke demanded. The Commander below her looked exhausted and sad. She gestured to Clarke's feet.

"Your boots."

Clarke looked down. She had left her boots by the river, the solitude of the creek and the feel of the water against her feet feeling a million miles away. Her feet were now caked with dirt and covered in scratches, her mind working too rapidly to have acknowledged them earlier.

Clarke shook her head, "First I'll get my shoes. Then I'll get the horses."


	3. Chapter 3

"You can't wear your armor."

Lexa stared back at her balefully, slowly sliding the remains of her coat up her arms. She kept her face expressionless but there was a flicker of something pained in her eyes as she pulled it over her shoulders.

Clarke stomped over to her stubborn patient, yanking the coat down her arms and away from her. Lexa made a half-hearted attempt to take it back but Clarke grabbed her wrist, "Don't be ridiculous, you'll tear your stitches."

Lexa held her gaze a moment, and Clarke could see the Commander warring with something in herself. Finally she turned away in silence, pulling out of Clarke's grip. Clarke rolled her eyes. Still, she took comfort in the feeling of exasperation with Lexa; it was much less complicated than her other feelings towards the Commander. Lexa's horse whickered, pushing its nose into the Commander's braids. Lexa stroked its forehead, speaking lowly in trigedaslang.

Clarke had tried to bring all three horses back with her, but the way they jerked their heads away from her unfamiliar touch made Clarke nervous; the last thing she needed was a kick to the head. In the end she had untied them all, choosing to lead only the white mare carefully behind her and hoping the other two would know their own way home.

Lexa opened her saddlebag, pulling on a frayed gray top with the sleeves torn off to replace the tattered and bloodstained remains of her undershirt. Clarke surveyed the change, telling herself she was ensuring that the material wouldn't aggravate Lexa's wounds, but she was also fascinated by the difference it made in the Commander. When Kane had told her of his initial meeting with Lexa, of the disguise and the deception, she'd had a hard time believing anyone could be fooled into thinking the warlord she knew was anything less than a leader. But as Lexa knelt by her warrior's sides to close their eyes for the last time, when she bent tentatively against the pain of her wound to retrieve the remains of her pauldron, when she slid a hand almost absently along the flank of her horse, she looked so small. Her bare arms made her look vulnerable, the curves of her tattoo almost gentle, her body so much less imposing without the swirl of a cloak around it, her war paint smudged, her eyes downcast.

Clarke looked away. She wasn't interested in the Commander as a person; she couldn't afford to think of how it was a blooded and fragile human being instead of the ever calculating and eternal Commander who abandoned her. A cold heart she could understand, but a wounded one she might feel compelled to heal.

Clarke shook her thoughts free and moved to stand by the Commander. "Will she carry both of us?" Clarke asked.

Lexa cocked her head, "Trus could carry us, but that does not seem necessary."

"I don't trust you not to fall off," Clarke said.

"I have ridden on my own since I was a child," Lexa groused.

Clarke made a sound of disbelief at her patient's pout. "Well, I've never ridden," she said, "You can talk me through it."

Getting themselves on the horse took longer than Clarke anticipated, her own inexperience and Lexa's injury slowing them down. By the time she settled in behind Lexa the other girl was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, her face set grimly, her eyes beginning to glass. Trus had been patient through the ordeal and Clarke took her reigns tentatively. She needn't have worried; between Lexa's weary instruction and the horse's own good sense, they managed to pick their way slowly through the forest.

Clarke was beginning to get used to the gentle rolling gait when she decided to break the silence.

"Who were they?" Clarke asked, "The people who tried to kill you?"

Lexa was quiet a moment, seeming to gather her words, "I am not sure," she finally said and Clarke thought that would be all she would get, but after a few still moments Lexa continued. "To bring peace to warriors is not always welcomed," she said slowly, "A people that cry out for an end to a century long war are not always pleased when they are asked to lay down their swords and grudges."

"That's," Clarke let out a breath, unsure how to express her feelings, "disappointing."

"It is a petty thing," Lexa sneered, her disgust evident, "I had expected better of my people."

They rode in silence for several minutes, the unchanging forest, the bobbing of Trus's head, and the rolling shift of Lexa's body against her the only thing her tired mind could focus on.

"Why are you not with your people, Clarke?" Lexa finally asked, and Clarke bit back a sigh, "Who can be trusted to lead them?"

Clarke shook her head, "My mother's capable enough. And she has Bellamy to make the choices she can't."

Lexa frowned, "You abandoned your people?"

The word grated on Clarke, the accusation in Lexa's voice sandpaper.

"I left. I didn't abandon anyone."

Lexa shifted forward and looked back at her, staring at Clarke as if she were puzzling out a riddle. Finally she nodded, finding her own answer to Clarke, "Sometimes a warrior takes time alone, to bring unity to their thoughts and to quiet their emotions–"

"I'm not a warrior," Clarke snapped, Lexa's casual assumption of her reasoning chafing.

"You are as much a warrior as I am. We are the same, Clarke."

"Maybe," Clarke said, eyes flashing at Lexa's impassive stare, "But I don't want to be."

Lexa did not reply, settling back against Clarke and staring forward, and they rode on in silence.

After three hours Lexa's head dipped forward, her body slumping slightly, and Clarke tightened her grip around her. She reached an arm around Lexa to check her pulse, fingers brushing away braids and sliding against damp skin. Her breathing sounded ragged but the beat of her pulse beneath Clarke's fingers was steady, and Clarke released a sigh of relief. For a moment Clarke rested her forehead against Lexa's shoulder, breathing deep the smell of blood and exhaustion and life.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite what she knew were Lexa's best efforts, the Commander spent much of the next few days unconscious. She managed to keep her seat in the saddle well enough to allow Clarke's only concern to be guiding the horse, but she kept a tight grip on the Commander anyway, fascinated and fearful of the way the indomitable war leader could feel so helpless in her arms. In her lucid moments Lexa would stare around the forest, eyes tracking through the trees. Each morning she'd point in the direction they needed to go and sink into silence, her body burning with unnatural warmth against Clarke's.

Clarke spent the days worrying. Lexa had lost an incredible amount of blood, and their all day rides were wearing even on Clarke. The Commander's fever stoked Clarke's fears that her wound might be growing septic, and she had neither the time or resources to treat that. At night they had meager fires and unsatisfying travel rations, the bite of cold in the air making Clarke pull herself tightly together. Lexa would pass out on the far side of the flames, and Clarke would stare into the fire, waking up suddenly each morning, soot stained and exhausted.

On the evening of the third day as they stopped to make camp, Lexa slid from the horse and lost her footing, stumbling to her knees and remaining there. Clarke jumped from the horse and ran to her, but the vicious look in Lexa's eyes stopped her. With a hiss of exertion the Commander brought herself to her feet, standing panting and staring into the trees. She looked as though she wanted to see them all burn. Clarke went to gather firewood.

When she returned Lexa was sitting stiffly near a shallow but clear firepit, her sword across her knees to sharpen, the even metallic shush of the stone across the metal strangely soothing. As darkness fell Clarke built the fire and settled to stare into its depths.

"Why are you still here, Clarke?" Lexa asked, her words punctuated by the sharpening slide of her sword.

Clarke didn't look up. Lexa stopped sharpening her sword, and the silence felt defeaning.

"You owe no answer," Lexa said.

"No," Clarke said, "I don't."

Lexa lay down and turned away from the fire.

When Clarke woke the embers had died and the night was freezing. Clarke gripped the threadbare blanket tighter around herself and fussed with the fire, the kindling finally taking. Clarke rocked back on her heels with a sigh of appreciation at the warmth. The shuddering light illuminated Lexa on the other side of the flames, and even in the wavering light Clarke could see that the Commander was shaking. She shuffled over to Lexa, slipping next to her and pulling the blankets over them both. Lexa's fever had her shuddering against Clarke, and she carefully pulled the girl against her, sliding beneath her to keep her warm and protect the injury on her back. Lexa's head curled under her chin, skin warm against Clarke's breastbone. Her hands gripped Clarke's arms tightly, trying to still her own violent shaking. Clarke hated how weak it made her feel.

"I'm not the one who leaves," Clarke said. She didn't know if Lexa heard.

In the morning Clarke woke with a sudden start, terrified and certain that Lexa had stopped breathing, that her body was a cold dead weight on top of her chest. She sat forward and Lexa's hand around her arm tightened. Clarke closed her eyes and tried to breath, furious and thankful for the tears in her eyes. With shaking hands she pushed Lexa's braids away from her face, smoothed the hair behind her ear. Lexa's mouth twitched in a frown, serious even in sleep. Clarke lay back. Lexa could use the rest.

When she woke again Lexa had moved away from her and was struggling with the bandages on her back.

"Let me see," Clarke demanded, pulling at the Commander's shirt. Lexa didn't argue, and it worried her.

Clarke did her best to clean along the stitches, and though the skin looked as though it were healing, there were angry red striations streaking out from the wound. Lexa was careful to remain still, but Clarke could tell from the twitch in her shoulder blades that the skin was tender to her touch.

"How far?" Clarke asked, sitting behind the Commander and rolling the last of the bandages around Lexa's middle.

Lexa's shoulders dropped and she shook her head. Clarke didn't know if that meant that they were too far away to hope, or that the Commander simply couldn't tell anymore. Clarke felt like her chest was full of stones. Lexa had to be helped onto the horse.

As the sun began to set on the fourth day, their tired horse crested a ridge giving way to a view of a wide flat plain and a glimmering look at a city unlike anything Clarke had ever seen.

It reminded Clarke of her history books on the Ark, artist's renditions of the hanging gardens of Babylon; wonders the earth had lost long before they had abandoned the ground. The city shone, but not with the metallic sheen of Camp Jaha, but with the warm radiance of red stone catching the last edge of the sinking sun. What parts of its walls that didn't flame orange and rose were tangled in green; great drapes of vines and recessed alcoves of trees and towering plants ascending along the walls, climbing the concentric rings of the city to culminate in a blazing golden tower, Clarke's eyes dancing away from the pain of its brilliance in the sun.

Clarke slid off Trus, standing on the crest of the hill, surprised that after so much blood and disappointment the ground could still give her glimpses of the beauty that she had dreamed about on the Ark, could still make her fingers itch warmly to paint. Clarke tightened her fists. The sun sank. The city darkened.

"Polis," Lexa said.

Clarke looked up at Lexa, bent forward slightly on the horse, sanctuary finally within reach. The Commander looked sad.

"You're not happy to be back?"

Lexa looked back at Clarke, an inscrutable expression on her face.

"I had wished to bring you here," Lexa said, voice soft, "in a different world."

Clarke looked away quickly, afraid that she would either yell or breakdown if she allowed herself to consider the longing in Lexa's eyes, and the anger that still twisted in her own heart. This was the only world they had; full of blood and betrayal and a city of red stone.

"Let's finish this then." Clarke said, starting down the hill, leaving the Commander to lead the horse along behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

They were separated almost immediately, and Clarke felt herself strangely adrift. A silent Lexa was ushered off by healers into the deepening dusk and Clarke was politely, but insistently, led to her own quarters; a two room villa that smelled like hot stone and incense, a bowl of oranges on the table, flowers drying from the rafters. The geometric metalwork on her windows was beautiful, but Clarke knew about gilded cages from Mount Weather. There would be time to test her locks later; Clarke lit the brazier in her sleeping quarters and fell into bed, dreaming of the steady pace of a horse and the Commander tired in her arms.

When she woke there were grounders in her room. Startled, Clarke reached for a dagger that wasn't there– spirited off while she slept. A young woman smiled at her and laid out clothes at the foot of the bed. An even younger man was changing the coals in the brazier, bucket of spent ash hung on his arm. They greeted her softly in trigedaslang and Clarke stuttered a reply.

"Where is the Commander?" Clarke asked.

The two grounders exchanged looks.

"Heda," Clarke clarified.

"Heda," the young woman smiled and then spoke a long string of trigedaslang that Clarke could not follow. The young man took in Clarke's look of bewilderment and shook his head. The woman smiled and mimed sleeping. Clarke nodded and gave a thumbs up. The man laughed and Clarke vowed to become more proficient at the language.

They left her and Clarke tentatively got out of bed, wary of another helpful ambush while she readied herself. She washed her face and arms in the bowl of water left on the table, shaking her head at the flowers floating on the surface. A few hours in Polis felt like another world.

There was food waiting for her in the other room and Clarke attacked it ravenously, chewing on a hunk of flat bread as she wandered the room, taking in the guards with spears outside her window, the heavy lock on her door. Clarke's mind worked over the problem of escape, but the exercise was mostly habit; there was nowhere she wished to escape to. And she wanted to see Lexa well for herself. There had been something strange in the way the healers had taken Lexa's arms; a curious lack of deference for the Commander that Clarke had never seen in a grounder before. Whatever was at the heart of that was worth investigating.

Clarke examined the clothes left for her, feeling the soft material of the fabric as she sucked on an orange slice. Citrus and cotton– Polis must be more of a trade hub than Clarke had imagined. Clarke pulled on the long sleeved blue shirt, the cut hanging more like a tunic than anything, and the gray pants, tying the leather cords at her ankles in an approximation of how her morning visitors had worn them. She half expected repurposed steel gauntlets and shoulder guards with rusting rivets, but either the people of Polis did not dress for perpetual war, or they didn't want to outfit their guest for it.

When Clarke finished dressing she stared around the room for something to do, hands fidgeting at her sides. She was confident someone would be coming for her, but until then it looked as though there was little to fill her time with but sleeping and eating. Clarke scowled.

She must have dozed off at some point in the chair in the common room, eyes drifting closed after an hour of staring at the door and willing it to open. Clarke jolted upright into wakefulness at a sharp knock on the door, surprised at the dimness of the room and realizing that twilight had fallen. The brazier by her chair burned lowly, shadows shifting on the walls. She found her feet just as the door swung open and the Commander strode in. Clarke's heart hammered, her still reeling head not quite ready for this.

The Commander's escorts carried swords but Lexa didn't appear to be armed, dressed simply in a black outfit identical to her own, and once again Clarke felt that small insistence that not everything was as it should be. Lexa nodded to the guards and they backed out of the door, swinging it shut behind them, and leaving Clarke alone with the Commander.

Lexa stepped into the light and Clarke breathed a sigh of relief– she looked well again; whatever the healers had done restoring the luster to her dark hair and the quiet intensity to her eyes.

"You are well?" Lexa asked after a moment of silence, her eyes carefully running over Clarke to check the answer herself.

"Yes," Clarke replied, crossing her arms, irritated by the concern. Lexa didn't get to be worried. "You seem better."

Lexa nodded, beginning to walk around the room, cataloging it's contents. Whether she was checking to see if Clarke was comfortable or whether her cell was secure, Clarke didn't know.

She decided to find out. "Can I leave?" Clarke asked.

Lexa's patrol stilled for a moment before she continued. Clarke thought she looked almost uncomfortable.

"No," she said, inspecting the window.

"Why not?"

Lexa's jaw tightened. "It is not my decision, Clarke."

For the first time since entering Polis, Clarke felt a prickle of fear. The city held its own secrets, and Clarke had the distinct feeling that she had been tangled up in them, the danger more severe because she couldn't know where it might come from, which knot of intrigue might choke her.

Lexa ceased her circuit, crossing to Clarke with such suddenness that Clarke took a half step back at her advance. Lexa froze at Clarke's movement, her stance softening slightly, firelight catching emerald in her eyes.

"No harm will come to you here," she said with the intonation of an oath.

"Don't make me any promises," Clarke said.

Lexa took another step forward, and Clarke tipped her head back slightly to keep meeting her eyes. It felt like the first time she had really looked at Lexa in a long time. She had not forgotten the girl's features, had not misplaced the knowledge of how sharp Lexa's cheekbones could be, the shadow in the hollow of her checks, or how disarmingly soft Lexa's lips could look at this distance. Clarke had not forgotten how the sad, half-lidded look Lexa so often had when she looked at her made her chest ache.

There were crimson ribbons braided into the Commander's hair, and Clarke's fingers reached to touch them before she caught herself.

Lexa stared at her a moment, the frozen stillness of someone who'd been approached by a wild animal. The ribbons were velvet; an impossible fabric in an impossible city. Clarke's curious fingers finally fell.

"A ward," Lexa said after a moment, when the curious spell between them was broken and it seemed as though Clarke would not reach out again, "the goddess expects blood from her warriors. We may fool her for a time with the sight of red."

Clarke didn't mean to laugh, but she had seen enough blood, smelled it, felt the oily texture on her skin that the ruse seemed ridiculous, "Is the goddess that shortsighted?"

Lexa stiffened for a moment and then came close to smiling, "She is watching from a long way away. Could you have seen the difference from your Ark?"

"If we could have, I wonder if more of us would have stayed to die in space."

Lexa nodded once, and turned away, something charged between them dropping.

"Rest well, Clarke," Lexa said as she left, "I will come for you tomorrow."

Clarke was left with the heavy click of a lock falling into place as the door closed.


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke dreamed of the Mountain as it was, before she had destroyed it. She prefered the dreams of bloodied bodies, open wounds and cracked skin to these where everyone's face is whole, and smiling, and alive. Jasper whispered into Maya's ear and she laughed, a little girl filled her plate with sweets in the dining hall, smiling surreptitiously at Clarke, and a man parted his hair just so with an ivory comb. Dante's voice was soft, and his eyes were hopeful when he took her hand, skin papery with age, and asked her to see his people.

When Clarke woke the next morning, Indra was scowling at her from the doorway.

"Oh my god," Clarke gasped, lunging for her blankets.

"On your feet, sky-girl. Polis wakes early and there is much to be done," Indra said, her expression stuck somewhere between boredom and distaste. Clarke stared at her and Indra rolled her eyes, turning to wait in the common room.

Clarke took a few steadying breaths, locking away the faces of the dead for one more day before she swung out of bed. She washed her face and dressed quickly, pulling on her boots in the common area as Indra drummed fingers on her crossed arms impatiently.

"Where's your sword, Indra?" Clarke asked, eyeing the general.

Indra narrowed her eyes, "There have been tensions in the city. With an attack on the Commander only the city guard may be armed."

"Your Commander is nearly killed and her general can't carry a weapon?" Clarke scoffed, sensing there was more to this than what Indra was telling her.

Indra's jaw set and Clarke could almost hear her teeth grind. Clarke had the feeling that if the woman hadn't been separated from her sword she might have used it.

"There are other powers in Polis than the Commander."

"What does that mean, Indra?"

The grounder gave her a sidelong look, "The Commander will decide what to brief you on."

Clarke made a sound of disgust but didn't press, certain that Indra enjoyed keeping her in the dark.

Indra gave a stiff nod to the guards at Clarke's door and led her into the sunny streets of Polis. Clarke had to take a moment as she stepped into the busy thoroughfare— her night entrance into the city had not done it justice. Though early, the street was already beginning to fill with grounders hurrying along the dusty stones, the blood of the city running to its center. There were young people, and old, and they all moved without the oppressive, hunted look of the Trikru. Clarke took a deep breath and realized her fists were clenched. Too many people, and too much life, all threatening to pull her back in, and Clarke was not ready. She had fled to the forest with no clear destination in mind, but, Clarke realized with some bitterness, that hadn't stopped her from being caught up in another person's fight— in Lexa's fight. As she gathered herself to join Indra, Clarke promised herself that Polis would not hold her, if only to prove that she could leave something beautiful unspoiled.

"Are your eyes too busy for your feet to move, sky-girl?"

Clarke glared and fell into step with the warrior.

They seemed to be heading towards the center of the wheeling city, the rose walls and hanging greenery that enclosed them giving their journey a labyrinthine feel. The sounds of the waking city, the arches of red stone, the lushness of twining vines, and the pure blue of the sky nearly overwhelmed Clarke, and once again her hands itched to paint. Indra was not similarly affected and kept up a punishing pace giving Clarke little time to revel in the city.

The walls that had grown almost claustrophobic opened up to a large central courtyard, market stalls ringing the edges and people milling about their morning business, and at the center a rose building with dozens of carved columns twisted into the sky, it's gold spire winking in the sun.

"What is that?" Clarke asked, unsure whether Indra would bother with an explanation— she didn't seem like the type to indulge in a tour.

"The temple of the goddess, her refuge here on earth," Indra said, surprising Clarke with a hint of reverence in her normally steely voice, "Polis grew around the seed of her presence, cleansed of the old world, and a new one was built around her."

Clarke had seen few remnants of the world before the bombs within the city walls; each red stone was placed by grounder hands, every piece of artistry came from a grounder spirit, and the gold towered temple was a testament to grounder faith. Indra eyed her.

"We are capable of more than you think," she said.

"Who are they?" Clarke asked, gesturing to the grounders gathered at the foot of the stairs. They were dressed like warriors, with the same haphazard armor slung across them as the Trikru, but their clothes were lighter; pale blues, whites, and thick tan furs. Their hair was kept short, with none of the complex braiding Clarke had become so used to.

"Emissaries of the Ice Nation" Indra replied, dark eyes tracking their movements carefully, "with an offering for the goddess."

As Clarke watched, one of the men with the group picked up a club resting against a grand bell and gave the metal a sharp crack. A rumbling note sounded from the bell, the tone rising like pulsing thunder and fading quickly, the last shrilling tones of it disappearing up a register higher than Clarke's ears could discern, but leaving them ringing all the same.

As the sound died in the air, the huge gates of the temple began to open and figures all in red descended the steps slowly. The Ice Nation warriors backed up respectfully, the last of them jerking a cloth off the litter they had placed at the base of the temple steps, revealing an elk of such size that Clarke was certain the spread of its antlers reached further than she was tall. The figures in red stooped to carry the litter and began their slow ascension back up the steps, their progress burdened by the mighty weight of the offering.

Indra's face twisted in a sneer, "The Ice Queen believes she has the ear of the goddess."

"Does she?" Clarke asked.

Indra turned her gaze on Clarke, the anger in her eyes telling Clarke she had once again offended her.

"No," Indra said finally, and turned to lead them on.

—

Lexa sat on a stone throne, carved with figures of warriors dying, and red as blood. Clarke could think of nothing more appropriate for her. She was missing the dagger, but Lexa was her own weapon.

"How many thrones do you have, Lexa?" Clarke asked idly.

"Fewer than some," Lexa replied, "And I do not have a mountain."

Clarke frowned and Lexa fell silent, studying her. Her gaze was shrouded in kohl, but was no less piercing for it.

"I will speak plainly with you, Clarke."

Clarke stood silent, arms crossed and waited for the Commander to continue. Lexa seemed to weigh her words before beginning again.

"My position in Polis is much compromised," she said, raising her chin, "In no small part due to your destruction of the Mountain Men."

Clarke opened her mouth to tear her apart, but Lexa held up a hand.

"This is not a judgment— only an assessment."

Clarke snapped her mouth closed but continued to glare ferociously.

Lexa stared back, her face infuriatingly blank. "If my command fails, so does the Alliance. There will be war and your people will not be safe," Lexa said. Her impassive eyes flickered, "Nor will mine."

"My people can defend themselves," Clarke said, with more conviction than she felt.

"With what?" Lexa replied, stepping down from her throne. "You have no acid fog, no missiles, no Reapers, no impenetrable door," the Commander advanced down the steps, her voice implacable, "You have guns, Clarke, and not enough for the many thousands that will seek to destroy or enslave you." Lexa stood before her, the kohl around her eyes giving their green a dark intensity. "Without the Trikru's protection and the Alliance your people will die. This I can promise you."

"What did I say about promises?" Clarke growled.

"Clarke," Lexa said softly, "We still want the same things."

"I don't pretend to have any idea what it is you want, Lexa," Clarke spat, "I don't believe you do, either."

Lexa ignored her barb, "You are here for a reason, Clarke."

"And what reason is that?" Clarke replied.

"You are a leader, Clarke, and Polis is a place of power. You were drawn to it."

Clarke scoffed, "I wasn't drawn to anything. I came to deliver a half-dead Commander," Clarke turned away, the almost religious conviction in Lexa's eyes unsettling her, "I liked you better unconscious."

"Others have felt the same," Lexa said, the promise of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"I will never trust you, Lexa," Clarke said, hating even the memory of that smile, hating that there was a part of her that still watched for it.

Lexa nodded, her eyes focused somewhere past Clarke.

"And I can't be allies with someone I don't trust."

Lexa met her eyes, and it was one of the few times Clarke found her completely unreadable— a steel wall somewhere between her soul and that blank green stare. Lexa sighed and turned away. Clarke felt strangely abandoned, like she'd been throwing all her strength behind pulling a rope that had suddenly gone slack.

"Indra will show you the way back to your quarters."

—

Indra kept her stony silence the entire trek back to Clarke's villa, but Clarke could feel the woman's tension like a thunderstorm gathering.

Clarke was unsurprised when Indra followed her into the villa after exchanging a few terse words in trigedaslang with the guards.

"You have put the Commander in a difficult position," she said, glowering as Clarke pulled off her boots, "Her situation is more dangerous than you realize, sky-girl."

"That's not my problem," Clarke replied, turning towards her bedroom.

"It is," Indra snarled, grabbing Clarke's shoulder roughly and spinning the girl to face her, "Her command is the only thing that shields you. There are those who have other plans for you and your people."

Clarke wrenched out of Indra's grip.

"We survived the Mountain Men, we'll be fine."

"Do not be foolish," Indra growled, "Your feelings keep you from saving a crucial alliance, and many people's lives."

Clarke advanced on Indra, sick of the constant undeserved anger the woman laid at her door.

"Would the Commander forgive if she had been betrayed?" Clarke demanded, "Would she give up if she were owed blood?"

Indra's face turned impassive, the look in her eye's telling Clarke she was beneath the warrior's contempt, "Ask the Ice Queen what the Commander is capable of forgiving, sky-girl."


	7. Chapter 7

Lexa came to her that evening, her knock softer than it had been the first night she came to Clarke's door. She even waited for Clarke to open it herself, rather than sweeping in, and Clarke took a kind of pleasure in blocking the doorway with her body for a moment before turning with a sigh to let the Commander in.

Lexa entered the room almost tentatively, like she was testing for traps, and Clarke was so tired of the battle between them.

"What do you want?" Clarke said, and even she could tell there was not enough demand in her voice.

Lexa flexed her hands, looking as though she missed the hilt of her sword to rest them on and wasn't sure of their purpose otherwise.

"I know you wish to leave," Lexa said. Clarke nodded and Lexa squared her shoulders, "But I was commanded to bring you to Polis. You are to meet with the 12 leaders of the clans."

"And if I refuse?"

Lexa didn't answer, and Clarke shook her head, "When is this gathering?"

Lexa spoke carefully, eyes trained to the middle-distance, "Five days from now. We are waiting for–"

"You want to keep me locked up in here for five days?" Clarke said, finally finding her bite. She had already hidden the small knife they had left her to slice oranges with beneath her bed, and she could lure a guard in by overtipping the coals in her brazier and catching something alight. She was far from the main gates of the city, but under cover of darkness she could find refuge in the many twists of Polis' darkened streets.

"You would be allowed to explore Polis," Lexa said calmly, as if she could read the thoughts behind Clarke's eyes, "With supervision."

Clarke sighed, thinking of the dull knife in the other room and how much she didn't want more blood on her hands, "The 12 leaders should know I don't speak for my people. If they're interested in making alliances or threats they should make them to the Chancellor."

Lexa stared at her silently and Clarke knew her argument hadn't swayed her; the Commander believed more in destiny than democracy, and Clarke guessed so did the rest of the grounder compact.

"Clarke," Lexa said finally, breaking the quiet that had fallen uneasily between them, "You may not wish for an alliance with me, but it would serve you greatly to meet with the other clans. You may come to understand the danger better."

"Who commands the Commander?" Clarke asked, finally settling on what had disturbed her about Lexa's initial invitation.

"A goddess," Lexa replied, and her eyes were worried.

–

"When you first saw me in the woods, you were going to let me leave." Clark asked, "Why?"

Lexa led her through circling streets, the stone roads running perpetually at an angle. Clarke felt as though she were walking on a clock face, living the turn of the hours as the sun dropped lower, the red stones bruising to purple as darkness came.

"It was the first time I had seen you since," Lexa paused for only a moment, "The mountain. You were angry, and I was weak. There is no time for weakness now," Lexa met her eyes briefly as they walked, "We are needed, Clarke."

The streets were quiet, but there were still those who parted before Lexa's steady stride, still murmurs of Heda, but there were more smiles than in Trikru territory, more excited pointing, and this more than anything convinced Clarke that Polis was a city of peace– that its people could look at their warlord Commander and smile at her presence.

Lexa remained unaffected, her eyes slipping past her admirers with a practiced indifference and Clarke wondered how she could care so deeply about her people without actually seeming to connect with them. Perhaps it was the only way she could make decisions like TonDC. Clarke wondered if that was how Lexa had chosen to see her at the mountain– an indiscernible face in the crowd. Clarke couldn't decide if she envied her detachment.

She matched the Commander's unflagging pace, wishing once again that her escort would slow down and let her enjoy the city, but Lexa had been adamant about their destination.

"There will be a feast to celebrate the victory at the mountain," Lexa had told her, and Clarke had resisted the impulse to demand an explanation for which victory she meant, "The 12 leaders will be there and it is worth making," Lexa had stopped, eyes sliding away from Clarke almost shyly, "An impression."

–

The baths were sunken below ground, caverns of half reclaimed subway tunnels and painstaking excavation. Dim lights were recessed at intervals in the walls, and coals burned a low red in the corners. The water moved lazily, casting shifting golden waves along the mosaics pressed into the stone and concrete.

Clarke ran her fingers along the tiles, their perfect edges from a time before the world ended, but the design clearly grounder.

"I am told it took a year to complete," Lexa said.

Clarke nodded absently; she could believe it. Her eyes tracked the design around the room. It was a map of sorts. Polis was easy to pick out, a city of circles and lights, a strange figure floating above it, shrouded by clouds. There was the forest, and the mountain, a brooding black amongst the green. Clarke's hand traced the space where Camp Jaha resided, "They'll have to rework this part."

Lexa nodded. "There are other baths, but I thought you would prefer this one. It is the most…" Lexa gestured to the wall and trailed off, like she was struggling for the word. "Beautiful," Lexa finally settled on, though she looked as if she wasn't entirely happy with her choice.

Clarke gave her a sidelong look, "I don't see you as a great art lover."

"I'm not," Lexa agreed, inclining her head slightly, "but I have not seen yours."

Clarke looked away, clenching her fists. The baths were quiet, just the hushed lapping sound of moving water and the occasional hiss from coals where water perpetually dripped to sweep steam through the room. The warm humidity and the dimness made Clarke feel like they were farther below ground then they were, creatures hibernating beneath the earth, pressed together and still. Clarke's skin was damp and each breath she took felt half water, a dreamy light headedness enveloping her. Everything smelled of lemongrass. They were alone, and Clarke suspected that Lexa had ensured they would remain so.

Without preamble Lexa pulled her shirt over her head, and Clarke caught a glimpse of tan skin, the stretch of muscles along her side, and the shifting web of scars across Lexa's stomach before she looked away, focusing her eyes determinedly on the mural. It was nothing she hadn't seen before while stitching and dressing the Commander's injury, but Clarke felt off-balance all the same; the absence of trauma and adrenaline keeping her from entering the clinical survival mindset she'd been in before.

Clarke closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could hear the sounds of water moving as Lexa stepped into the sunken pool. With one more steadying breath, Clarke turned, taking in the sight of Lexa descending, the ink of her tattoo and the map of kill scars on her back disappearing beneath the water, the scar of her most recent injury still sharp and pale against her skin. Lexa kept her back to Clarke, her hands already beginning to untangle her many darkening braids, fingers catching in damp curls.

Clarke's chest ached and more than anything she wanted to be angry– angry with herself for the longing to touch her, angry with Lexa for the unspoken offer, angry enough to keep herself sane and safe. But they were alone and there was no one to judge Clarke's weakness, and it was dark, and she could pretend her pale skin next to Lexa's wasn't her own, and it was warm, and her skin burned with missing another's. Clarke pulled her own shirt off, stepping out of the rest of her clothes, and slid into the water.

The water was hot, and Clarke gasped with the pleasure of it, a luxury she had never known. The floor of the pool bottomed out with the water hitting just below the line of her collarbone, her hair trailing behind her. Lexa turned to watch her approach with a restrained alertness, green eyes tracking her like she was reviewing a battle plan or trying to work out the mechanisms of a trap. Clarke smiled at her, unsure whether she wanted to spring one, but enjoying the power of knowing she could.

Lexa's head tipped back, like she was trying to retain the regal disinterest of the Commander, but the way Clarke could see her visibly swallow as she moved closer spoiled the effect. Clarke's eyes fell to the water surrounding them, the mineral deposits in the stone making the water a cloudy web of shimmering gold, like the galaxies the Ark Observation Station had studied. Lexa was only three inches away but there were a thousand stars between them.

"Clarke–" Lexa began, but her words shuddered to a surprised stop when Clarke reached beneath the water, ran her fingers lightly across Lexa's side, palm pressing against her stomach. Her skin was soft between the raised lines of scarring, and Clarke could feel the muscle tension beneath her fingers from how rigidly Lexa was holding herself.

"Clarke," Lexa sighed her name, eyes almost closing at the contact, body pushed flush against the stone siding of the pool, trapped by Clarke's presence.

Clarke moved closer, and Lexa's head inclined slightly, anticipating the kiss. Clarke ducked away instead, running her thumb along Lexa's bottom lip, bringing her mouth to kiss behind Lexa's ear. Lexa caught Clarke's thumb between her teeth as Clarke continued to kiss down her neck. Clarke nipped at Lexa's throat and she gave a low hum in response, the sound disappearing into Clarke's mouth as she moved to finally capture Lexa's lips. The kiss was hungry, and Clarke pushed deeper, keeping Lexa open to her, tasting her breathless warmth. Lexa kissed like she was losing a war; all retreat and surrender under Clarke's intensity. Clarke bit Lexa's lip until she pulled away with a gasp, trying to catch her breath. Clarke refused to let her regroup, pressing her body fully against Lexa's, revelling in the feeling of Lexa's breath hitching against her own chest, the way her skin burned against Clarke's.

"Clarke," Lexa growled low against her. Clarke scratched a line down the Commander's side, tearing her fingers across her skin.

"Clarke, Lexa said, voice sharper now with pain, her hands still held rigidly at her sides.

Clarke pressed her mouth to Lexa's neck, drawing her teeth along the line of the Commander's stuttering breath, pressed her hands against Lexa's chest roughly.

"Clarke," Lexa gasped, grabbing her wrists and pulling Clarke's hands away from her.

Clarke jerked her hands out of Lexa's grip, meeting the Commander's eyes with all the intensity of her want. Lexa was breathing hard, green eyes guarded.

"Commander," Clarke said, never dropping her gaze as she set her fingers in the space between Lexa's collarbones, dragging her nails down her chest, gratified by the sight of red and Lexa's hiss of pain, her green eyes still trained on Clarke's own. Clarke gave a frustrated sound of impatience and lunged to kiss Lexa, biting at her lip angrily, copper in her mouth, and something in the Commander finally snapped. With a snarl she grabbed Clarke's arms, twisting them around and pushing Clarke against the stone edge of the pool with a force that made Clarke gasp as she lost her breath. Clarke gave a feral smile, licked her lips, and pushed against Lexa's hold, trying to reach her mouth again. Lexa growled and shoved Clarke back in place, eyes wild and running hungrily over Clarke. They stood still a moment, silent except for panting breaths and the sound of water around them, Lexa's gaze scraping across Clarke like she wanted to tear her apart, a vicious want. Clarke shivered.

Lexa moved fast, grabbing Clarke's jaw, her fingers bruising, turning Clarke's head so her neck was exposed, biting at the soft space under her jawline. Clarke whined, running her nails down Lexa's back, trying to pull her closer, aching for Lexa's thigh between her legs.

Lexa jerked back, grabbing Clarke's wrists and spreading her arms against the stone siding, pressing fierce kisses along Clarke's collarbone, Lexa's tongue tracing the hollow of her neck. Clarke made sounds halfway between moans and growls, torn between begging and demanding more. She fought against Lexa's grip on her wrists, desperate for more contact, but Lexa's hold was like a vice, Clarke twisting her skin into a bruise with her struggle.

Lexa stilled her fight with a kiss and there was no hint of surrender in the rough force of her lips, in the way she claimed Clarke's mouth.

Clarke was still dazed when Lexa broke their contact, spinning Clarke around so that her front was pushed against the stone, hands gripping the siding, Lexa pressing into her back.

Lexa's teeth set into her shoulder and Clarke groaned as Lexa bit down. As the pain sharpened Clarke began to twist under Lexa's hold, but Lexa just gripped her hips and bit harder, waiting for Clarke's body to still into submissive twitches.

Lexa's fingers settled at her center, pausing for the briefest moment to allow Clarke to prepare, and then Lexa was inside her, teeth holding Clarke in place like a predator as Lexa pushed into her, Clarke crying out from the pressure and the pleasure and the pain.

Lexa's other hand was over Clarke's own on the stone ledge, steadying them both, her fingers white knuckled in their twisting grip through Clarke's fingers, painful and grounding.

Lexa's fingers curled inside her and Clarke gasped, reaching back with her other hand to sink her fingers into Lexa's unravelling braids, wet curls snarling in her grip, Lexa's teeth tightening in her shoulder as she pulled.

Lexa moved in her with ferocity and a steady determination, fingers pushing deeper than Clarke believed she could stand, her pace unyielding and unforgiving, the certainty of her motions making Clarke twist against her, afraid of the intensity of the pleasure bearing down on her, the sharp edges of her building orgasm threatening to tear through her skin. With one more excruciating and perfect curl of Lexa's fingers inside her, Clarke's groans turned to a yell, her fingers tightening in Lexa's hair, her body buckling, tightening around Lexa's fingers, her only source of gravity.

Lexa's pace slowed, but did not stop, and Clarke moaned, exhausted and not ready for her body to be wound back up to such high tension. Clarke leaned back and Lexa supported her weight, untangling her grip on Clarke's hand to slide it down her front, slipping it between her legs to stroke at her clit as she pushed her fingers deeper inside Clarke. Clarke hissed and moaned, jerking on Lexa's fingers as she came again, Lexa finally releasing her shoulder and pressing a tingling kiss to the bite.

Clarke shook, gasping, tears caught somewhere in her throat and unable to pull enough air into her body. Lexa pulled her close, arms tightening around Clarke's chest, her body pushed flush against Clarke's back, her grip feeling like the only thing keeping Clarke from flying apart. Her voice was soft and her breath warm against Clarke's ear.

"You're safe, Clarke."


	8. Chapter 8

"Is the Commander allowed to look this relaxed?" Clarke asked, warm water around her soothing her still racing heart.

"The body is a weapon, Clarke," Lexa replied, her arms stretched wide along the lip of the bath, looking like a sated predator, "I sharpen my sword. This is no different."

Clarke rolled her eyes, "Do you scent your sword with lemongrass too?"

Lexa's eyes were closed and she nearly smiled, "Perhaps I should," she said, "a gift to those dying on its edge."

Clarke looked away, hand rubbing absently at the bite on her shoulder.

Lexa opened her eyes at Clarke's silence and her face fell, "Come here, Clarke."

When Clarke paused Lexa held out a hand, arm making slow waves in the gold water. Clarke caught her fingers and Lexa reeled her in, her body pressed flush against Lexa almost before she realized it, the familiarity of Lexa's skin still a surprise, the aching warmth it sent through Clarke still new. Clarke was just about to pull away, school her compromised body back into focus, when Lexa's fingers sunk into the flesh of her shoulder blades, kneading the sore muscles there and soothing knots that had set in the moment Clarke learned the Ark air system was failing. Despite the increasingly small part of her brain that protested against the intimacy, Clarke relaxed into her touch, her back pressed against Lexa. Clarke sighed with something like contentment.

"Where did you learn this?"

"Anya," Lexa replied, close enough that Clarke could feel her breath on her neck, "As her second it was my duty to prepare her before battle. A warrior's body must be loose before a fight."

"Of course," Clarke said, biting back a groan as Lexa's fingers worked into a knot, "God forbid you learn anything for pleasure."

Lexa's hands stilled for only a moment before she found her rhythm again, "Was the Ark such a paradise that you could afford pleasure for its own sake?"

"It doesn't have to be a paradise for people to be happy, Lexa. You talk about survival, but you think everything worth living for is weakness. I can't live that way." As Clarke spoke she realized that it was true; the life Lexa had almost convinced her to lead was unbearable– there had to be a way to hold weakness and healing and creation alongside all the iron ferocity of leadership. Clarke relaxed further into Lexa's touch, the mental realization doing more to ease her than even Lexa's skilled fingers.

"I understand," Lexa said.

Clarke shook her head, "Do you?"

"I have denied myself many things, Clarke," Lexa said quietly, her admission followed by fingers tracing a soft line behind Clarke's ear to her shoulder, "But in this my weakness has mastered me." Clarke sighed into the calloused touch and Lexa pressed her lips to the bite, the dull jolt of pain and the softness of Lexa's lips there unravelling her.

She turned in Lexa's arms and Clarke's breath caught at the intensity of Lexa's stare– the hunger and ache, the want, the hint of a question that Clarke did not want her to ask, and the glint of something that looked like Lexa was falling apart, falling into something that Clarke did not want to name.

What had passed between them wasn't without meaning, but Clarke told herself that it changed nothing. She didn't trust the Commander, and she couldn't forgive her, but Clarke's desire and softness towards Lexa were separate things– indulged but contained, healing but not compromising.

Clarke placed a hand over Lexa's hopeful eyes, skin soft against her palm, and kissed her blind, needing the warmth of Lexa's mouth but not the promise in her gaze. Lexa didn't shift under her hand, and didn't demand control of the kiss, allowing Clarke to direct the pull and ferocity, letting her take what she needed with a wary sort of caution that made Clarke push harder.

Clarke finally broke away with a gasp, Lexa staying patiently still, eyelashes brushing across Clarke's palm. Lexa's lips were bruised soft and parted, and her pulse jumped at her neck, tan skin coloring with the heat of their kiss. It hurt Clarke to look at her. Clarke kept her hand over Lexa's eyes and led them backward slowly, moving through gold ripples to the stairs of the pool. She sat on the top step and placed a hand on Lexa's shoulder to guide her down. Lexa paused only a moment before she allowed herself to be pushed into a kneel on the steps below Clarke. Clarke wound a damp strand of dark hair around her fingers, tugging forward slightly, Lexa's head dipping with the direction. Lexa ran her hands up Clarke's legs, fingers tingling across her calves and up her thighs.

"Clarke," Lexa breathed, the name warm on Clarke's thigh.

To quiet Lexa and the pounding of her own heart Clarke pulled her forward, fingers tangled in dark hair, Lexa's mouth silent and perfect, and the world simpler as Clarke fell apart.

–

The world couldn't remain simple forever, and Clarke pulled on her clothes with an aching wistfulness, wary of climbing the steps out of the intimate den and into a city full of too much space and too many people. Lexa was already dressed, fingers busy with her braids; an exercise that made her look younger to Clarke, the way Lexa stared into space and paced as her hands worked through damp curls made Clarke wonder who had taught the Commander her softness.

When she finished, Lexa slid a leather box from its place on a stone alcove, unfastening the straps as she brought it towards Clarke. She slid the lid upwards and Clarke's eyes widened. The box was full of tiny glass vials, nestled in black fabric, the soft curves of each bottle and the fine strands of copper and gold that encircled them the most delicate thing she had ever seen produced by grounder culture.

"They're beautiful," Clarke said.

Lexa looked conflicted, as though something about the craftsmanship spoke to her as well but she was loathe to admit it.

"They are scents," Lexa finally managed, "our artisans mix them from flowers and honey and…a number of other things."

There had been perfumes in the trunk the President had presented her in Mount Weather; cracked glass with faded velvet pumps that smelled like grave flowers, just one more invitation to mask the stench of what the mountain men did to survive. Clarke shook the dark thoughts from her head, unstoppered a thin blue bottle and inhaled the smell of salt water and storms. Clarke laughed– she had always wondered what the ocean smelled like, tracing the edges of the Pacific in an Ark atlas, wistful that she would never know, but she was certain that this was exactly what it must smell like to stand on the shore after a storm, just before the clouds cleared.

Lexa smiled, a real and whole movement, eyes trained on Clarke's face like the sound of her laughing was the first thing she had ever heard. Clarke looked away and Lexa bit her lip.

"This one," Lexa said, fingers on an amber bottle, "reminds me of you, a little."

Clarke's hand stalled above the bottle, suddenly nervous about its contents. If Clarke had believed Lexa was capable of blushing, that was what the Commander was doing, and Clarke had the sudden sinking fear that perhaps the Commander's feelings were not as compartmentalized as her own. Clarke closed the box, meeting Lexa's concerned gaze.

"It's not enough," Clarke said, "Pretending that you didn't leave."

Lexa sucked in a breath and suddenly her bearing changed; where she had stood a moment before was now the Commander, hair damp and curling, armor gone, but impervious and eternal. Clarke tried to push down the feeling that twisted in her chest as she watched the change– refusing to miss the Lexa she had touched, the looks that seemed reserved just for Clarke.

"What's done is done," Lexa said, returning the box to its place and turning to keep her eyes steady on Clarke, "A warrior does not worry about what cannot be changed."

"Of course," Clarke said, feeling the fury of everything unspoken between them growing, the intimacy of what they had shared bringing her feelings even closer to the surface. The weight of anger in her chest threatened to tear her open, "I'd never expect the Commander to apologize. Not for breaking her word. Not for leaving her allies to die. Not for throwing away an alliance. Not for leaving me with no choice but to–"

"You're right. I would never apologize for those things," Lexa spoke sharply, shoulders squaring, "But I am sorry." Lexa held her gaze, as if she could convey herself through the intensity of her stare, "I am sorry I left you."

"I wasn't yours to leave."

Lexa eyes dropped and she nodded once, curtly, and Clarke could have sworn she'd hurt her. She was glad. She wanted nothing more than to twist the knife and watch the Commander bleed for her.

"Did you expect me to die?"

Lexa's eyes snapped back up and she stared at Clarke. Clarke took a step towards the Commander, practically spitting the words, "When you left me standing in front of Mount Weather were you leaving me to die?"

"Clarke," Lexa said, a hint of warning and pleading in her voice and suddenly Clarke was frightened of the truth, but she could not stop herself.

"Would it have been easier for you?" Clarke demanded, "Politically? Emotionally? Did you decide I needed to die to keep your feelings from being compromised?" Clarke shoved Lexa hard in the chest, and the Commander took a half-step back. Clarke knew she was taking this much too far, that something was about to snap, but everything was tumbling out of her like a rockslide.

"It must have been a disaster for you when I lived– the woman who killed the Mountain the Commander couldn't touch– a skaikru who was more bloodthirsty than she had ever been. How many of your people lost faith in their Commander after that?" Clarke watched Lexa's green eyes flash, an angry smile on her own lips, "No wonder your own people are trying to kill you."

Lexa's jaw clenched along with her fists, and Clarke could almost see the force of will she was exerting to keep herself still.

"You know nothing of my people, Clarke."

Clarke closed the distance between them, fire in her eyes.

"We would have won, Lexa! We were winning until you walked away!"

Lexa's eyes were flinty as she turned away, stalking towards the door.

"I wiped them out, Lexa- they didn't need to die!"

When Lexa spun around she looked furious, her teeth bared in a snarl, "And you would have traded the lives of my people for those of the Mountain Men? All of their stolen blood was not worth the life of one of my warriors!"

"And the 44 that you left behind?"

Lexa's eyes narrowed, her voice dangerously soft, "How many of my people were the 44 worth to you?" the Commander moved towards her, menace in her movements, "A hundred? A thousand? How many would you have had me sacrifice to bring your friends back to you?"

"We had a common enemy, Lexa, they were stealing your people too!"

"Did you see them, Clarke? When the Mountain Man showed me my people they were ghosts not warriors. You would have had them throw themselves at the Mountain Men's guns– in chains, no weapons, no armor, weak and sick, just to provide their bodies as a shield for your people? They had already bled for me, I could ask them for no more."

"I thought being a leader was asking people to die for you."

Lexa's jaw clenched and Clarke knew she'd hit a nerve, "You know the names of your 44, but I know the faces of hundreds. It was those I thought of when I left you."

Clarke shook her head, "You should have come to me, we could have figured something out, we could have all won," Clarke said, "You told me you trusted me– why couldn't you trust me then?"

"Because they had guns to my people's heads, and you would have had me waste their lives trying to make you see them as you saw your friends," Lexa said, barely restrained fury making her stand taller, a viciousness in the line of her body that meant war, "You see us as the Mountain Men did– savage, brutal, inhuman," Lexa stepped towards her on each word, teeth bared, "Beasts to use or wipe out. I wished to show you Polis to convince you that we are not as backwards as you think, but I can see that I was wrong. It is not for me to prove the worth of my people." Lexa stared into Clarke's eyes, every hint of softness in them gone or buried. Lexa turned to the outside stairs with a sound of disgust, "Your people fled to the stars when the bombs fell, but mine are the ones who stayed– we will last, Clarke," Lexa's eyes glittered darkly as she stood at the top of the stairs, "If we must, we will outlast you.


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke stormed through Polis, her angry pace cutting a path through the torchlit night, streets empty and quiet, red stones cooling in the evening air. Lexa was nowhere in sight, her attendants gone with her. Either the Commander trusted that Clarke wouldn't try to leave Polis or didn't care if she did. Clarke was livid, and half inclined to slip away into the forest and damn the grounder summit, but the nagging sense of Polis being at a political crossroads that could tumble her friends into a danger they knew nothing about kept her steps directed in the circuitous route back to her villa. There was also something in Clarke that rebelled at giving Lexa the last word, determined to make the Commander understand just how unforgivable her betrayal had really been, until the knowledge crumbled and rotted Lexa as much as it did Clarke.

Clarke's furious journey was interrupted by the sharp crack of hooves on stone, the sound rebounding and echoing infinitely on the solemn night streets. It gave Clarke an ominous feeling and she realized that it was far later than she had realized, the dead stillness of the streets and just how isolated she was making her cautious, and she stepped into the shadow of a darkened alley.

The riders came into view with a clatter and a snort of sweaty horses, three grounders in pale colors and armor flanking a rider on a scarred grey horse, the woman riding it looking far wilder than the animal beneath her.

The woman looked as if she'd been carved from a glacier, the lines of her face sharp and sweeping, her bearing cold and monolithic somehow- as if she had weathered more time than the human race remembered. Her extreme paleness was countered by a mane of red hair, wild and loose, setting her further apart from her grim guard with their hair cut short and close, like shadows cast by her flame.

The woman turned her gaze on Clarke, as if the dark of the alley was nothing against her blaze, and Clarke felt a freezing chill at the danger in her blue eyes. Clarke felt as though her heart had slowed, and she could count each breath as their eyes connected. Clarke was not a coward, but she had faced a Pauna, and she knew what it felt like to be prey. She found herself frozen, hoping that the woman's interest would pass her by, transfixed by the possibility of violence in those eyes, and the knowledge that the woman's attention could catch on her just long enough to snuff her out. There was a vicious carelessness in her face, like she might break Clarke's spine for pleasure and toss her broken body aside like a bored predator, capricious and cruel. The moment seemed to stretch with an agonizing anticipation and Clarke gritted her teeth.

The woman's eyes slid away and Clarke's tense body relaxed in relief, sinking her back against the stone wall behind her. The woman raised her arm, right wrist ending in a red wrapped stump, and howled, a chaotic sound in the narrow streets, red hair streaming like a war banner. She spurred her horse and her guard forward, their shapes disappearing into the night, taking her fire and chill and leaving only the clatter of their horses' hooves behind and the sense that Clarke had narrowly missed disaster; the wave breaking at the last moment, the lightning hitting an inch away, the lion going for bigger prey.

* * *

When Clarke returned to her villa she pushed past the guards stationed at her door, exasperated by their continued presence when she had just been unaccompanied through Polis. Clarke closed the heavy door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh, eyes closing as she tried to calm her mind and sort through the many threads of rage and fear and confusion that had tangled her day.

"Eventful day, sky-girl?"

Clarke jumped at the sound of Indra's voice, eyes snapping open to take in the general folded into a chair in the dim corner of the room. Clarke scowled.

"It's not done yet, apparently," she replied, crossing her arms as Indra stood.

"I've come with a warning," Indra said, eyes impassive.

"The Commander can't give her own warnings?" Clarke spat.

Indra advanced with a snarl, "Careful, sky-girl. There are some that would grieve your passing, but I am not one of them."

Clarke stood her ground, "If Lexa wanted me dead, I'd be dead. What do you want, Indra?"

Indra tipped her head back, proud but posturing, and Clarke almost thought she looked nervous.

"Do not play with the Commander. Heda is not yours to command, and she is not yours to weaken."

Clarke frowned; it had not been what she had expected.

"If I had as much influence over her as you think, I could have made her stay at the mountain."

Indra looked unconvinced, but she did not argue. Clarke turned the information over in her head; the general's belief that she had a hold over the Commander both frightening and satisfying to Clarke.

"Was that all?"

Indra's jaw twisted, like the words were sour in her mouth.

"There will be those among the conclave who will offer you things- promise you safety and peace. Do not trust them. They will be lying."

"I'm not interested in making any more alliances with grounders," Clarke said, "They don't seem to work out."

Indra stared at her and Clarke raised her eyebrows, stepping out of the pathway to the door with an incline of her head towards it.

Indra rolled her eyes and started for the door, Clarke crossing away towards her room to avoid the general, not wishing to tempt the warrior's bad temper with her proximity. Against her better judgment, a question tumbled out of Clarke as Indra passed by.

"There was a woman who rode into the city tonight- with red hair and blue eyes. She looked," Indra turned and Clarke clenched her fists, unable to put the exact feeling the woman had given her into words that didn't sound melodramatic, "She looked dangerous."

Clarke would not have believed the look in Indra's eyes was fear if she hadn't seen it herself, though the woman mastered it quickly, the flicker of emotion returning to steely indifference. She bent and pulled something from her boot, the glimmer of steel in the dim light making Clarke take an anxious step back. The blade she pulled was thin and wicked looking, cruelly barbed on one side and razor pointed. Indra grabbed Clarke's wrist and pressed the blade into Clarke's palm.

"Do not be found with this sky-girl," she said lowly, "and keep it close."

Indra turned to the door, hand reaching for the heavy handle.

"Who was she?" Clarke demanded, the shadow of knowing the truth the moment their eyes had caught in the darkened street thick in her chest as she clutched the thin blade.

Indra's back was to Clarke, but she saw the warrior's shoulders tense.

"You saw the Ice Queen," Indra replied, "She will want to meet you."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Chapter 9 was rather short, so this is a double update, but don't miss the previous chapter- you might be a little lost if you skip it.**

* * *

Her attendants had braided blue ribbons into her hair and slipped silver onto her wrist. There was a rope of bells around her ankle and a line of kohl from the corner of her eyes to her temple. She wore blue silk, with a gray sash held in place by a silver halfmoon. All of it made Clarke feel otherworldly, and it was a relief to not be herself.

Indra arrived to escort her to the feast just as the stones were beginning to glow with the sun's descent through the sky. Clarke wondered if from now on she would always tell time in shades of red. The general led her down streets that were slowly becoming familiar to Clarke, all the way to the center square in front of the goddess' temple.

The square had been cleared of vendors and the space was now dominated by an enormous table, all of one long seamless piece of wood that must have come from a tree so large it was beyond imagining, set to overflowing with steaming food and wide bowls of wine. To one side of the table was a stack of logs piled to a height easily twice as tall as Clarke.

There were groups of grounders talking, milling about the square or sitting at the table, picking at food before the meal began in earnest. It was a diverse group, now that Clarke knew what to look for in differentiating the tribes; the subtle differences in the color and texture of their clothing, the way they wore their hair, the style of their tattoos.

At the head of the table stood Lexa, who turned at Clarke's approach, warpaint making her green eyes sharper.

The Commander wore a red sash, longer and wider than her war kind, fastened at her shoulder with a silver sun device. The fabric twisted across her chest, looping beneath her opposite arm and falling behind her in a bloody river of folds, open across the front where Lexa was bound in black, the skin and scars of her stomach exposed, collarbone and shoulder amber in the failing light. Clarke wondered if her skin still tasted like lemongrass and was immediately enraged at herself and Lexa for the thought.

The Commander acknowledged her with a nod, eyes flicking down Clarke only once before looking away. Clarke could see her jaw tick and wondered if Lexa shared her thoughts. The possibility of Lexa's weakness strengthened her own resolve and anger- if this was a way to make the Commander suffer, she would take it.

Lexa glanced at her again, mouth opening as if she might say something before she caught sight of the fire in Clarke's eyes and gestured simply to the chair next to hers instead.

Clarke set her jaw stubbornly and took her seat; if the Commander meant to suffer this event in stoic silence, she would oblige her.

* * *

Clarke tried to keep the names straight as they introduced themselves; Ada of the Drikru, Orlan of the Braknkru, Rora of the Winakru, and on and on, more people and tribes than she had thought possible. All showed a special interest in Clarke, but her taciturn silence and Lexa's dismissals were enough to keep most from interrogating her.

Clarke sighed as yet another chieftain moved away from them after paying her respects, and Lexa's fingers tapped irritably on the arms of her chair. Clarke wondered how much patience it had taken to bring together the coalition and where Lexa had learned diplomacy from- neither Anya nor Indra seemed to have the gift for it.

Clarke was weighing the cost of asking; wondering if the question was worth breaking her silence for in order to relieve some of the tedium, when Lexa stood up abruptly. A party was approaching them, a woman flanked by two others, and Indra stared at Clarke until she too stood.

The woman at the center was tall and very old, her hair a loose hanging silver, and Clarke could tell by the spidering film over her gray eyes that she had been blind for many years.

"Luna," Lexa said, and there was the sound of a smile in her voice as she took the old woman's hand and kissed her wrinkled palm.

Luna ran her other hand across Lexa's face, fingers ghosting over the Commander's warpaint to avoid smudging it.

"Lexa," Luna said, "You have been away too long."

It was the first time Clarke had heard anyone refer to Lexa by her name, and she studied the woman, wondering what connection she could have to the Commander that could make them so informal with each other.

"Luna, this is Clarke," Lexa said, placing the old woman's hand on Clarke's forearm, "Heda kom Skaikru."

Clarke tensed at the title.

"I'm not their commander," she said with a glare towards Lexa. The Commander ignored her stare at Luna smiled at her, gray eyes focused beyond them.

"May I?" Luna asked, her hands at Clarke's shoulders. Clarke looked away from Lexa with a sigh of exasperation and nodded.

"Yes," she said.

Luna ran her hands across Clarke's face, thumbs running across her eyelids, fingers parsing the crinkle in her brow, the frown at the corners of her mouth. Clarke felt both comforted and exposed.

"I hope Polis gives you rest, Heda," Luna said, and before Clarke could argue at the name Luna's attendants led her away.

Lexa looked after Luna's departure with an expression that seemed almost wistful and Clarke considered asking Indra about the Commander's connection to Luna- wondering if it was possible to prise any actually useful information from the tight lipped general- when they were interrupted.

"Heda," a voice spoke behind them.

Clarke turned with Lexa and there was the Ice Queen.

"Nova," Lexa nodded, the movement stilted, and her green eyes had that distant, indiscernible look that Clarke could not read.

The Ice Queen smiled and bowed, managing to make the show of subservience crackle with animosity.

Nova was dressed in white, the color making her skin paler, almost translucent, and the fire of her hair and the ice in her eyes was a shocking contrast. The wrist of her missing right hand was still wrapped in red. Her left hand clenched and unclenched, like she itched to claw at something. Lexa grew even more still beside Clarke, expression flat and eyes stone.

"This is Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa said, her introduction low. Clarke wondered why she was not "Heda" this time, but decided it was not the moment to ask.

"We have met," the Ice Queen said, eyes shifting to transfix Clarke like she was a butterfly on a board. "What a different introduction it would have been had I stopped my horse last night."

Lexa's eyes flicked to Clarke curiously, but she said nothing.

Clarke narrowed her eyes, "How so?"

"We are most ourselves when we are alone," Nova said, gesturing to the grounders around them and Lexa by Clarke's side, "It is a passion of mine to find the true self. Strip away the comfort of the day, the armor of our friends, and the presence of the one's we love, and you expose the real heart of the warrior." Nova smiled again, "Wouldn't you agree, Commander?"

For a moment Clarke could see Lexa's mask flicker and something that looked like madness in her eyes- like tearing apart skin and snapping bones- but then it was gone and Lexa looked away with a bored sigh.

"Ah, well," Nova said finally, "We all live with regret."

* * *

"Can you pet do tricks, Commander?" Orlan asked, loud voice carrying over the merriment. Clarke could feel Lexa tense beside her, fist clenching on the table. The feast had begun in earnest but there were many who were quicker to drink than eat. Orlan raised his arms, looking around the table with a drunken grin, "Can she breath fire fog like the Mountain Men? Will our skin crack open and bleed if she touches us?"

Several warriors from the Braknkru near him let out raucous laughter, but many others looked uncomfortable, their gazes flickering between Orlan and the Commander. Few beyond the Trikru had encountered the Mountain Men, and Clarke realized that much of what they'd experienced must have been lost in translation.

Orlan stood on unsteady legs, taking a jerking step towards the head of the table, "Show us your death magic sky-girl!"

Before Clarke could react or Lexa could stand, the Ice Queen swept to her feet, knocking her chair back and hurling her goblet at the drunken Orlan, silver striking his temple and wine spilling down his neck and chest.

"Guard your tongue, Orlan," she snarled, and the long table silenced at her words, "You disrespect the Heda at her celebration."

Orlan narrowed his eyes and swayed a moment, blinking away blood from where the metal had cut his eyebrow. Tentatively he brought his fingers to brush at the blood, staring at the stain on his hand with confusion before looking between Nova and Lexa. Clarke felt the moment balance perfectly between violence and merriment, waiting for a weight to roll it one way or another. Clarke thought of the serrated dagger slid into her boot. The Commander stood, red sash sliding across her, regal and in control.

"You are lucky there are no weapons at the feast, Orlan," Lexa said slowly, eyebrow raising slightly, "Imagine if she still had her axe."

Orlan's face split into a slow smile and he rubbed his head, staining ashy hair with blood and laughing, his companion's laughter following. He inclined his head slightly to Lexa, "My apologies, Heda-"

"Give your words to Heda kom Skaikru," Nova spat, pulling the moment back towards tension with her snarl, "She is the Mountain Killer, and the One Who Did Not Run."

Clarke felt as though her ribs had collapsed in on her heart, at once pressure and sharp pain at the title Nova gave her. She felt the hazy sense of premonition that came with times of unwanted fate; knew that the name would stay with her and that she would hear it far too many times. Clarke felt a thick anger in her throat at the One Who Ran beside her, wishing Lexa had traded the weight of their names, certain that hers was heavier to bear.

Orlan looked to Lexa, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

His eyes caught Clarke's and she could see the apology there- he had not meant to make the night so heavy on her shoulders, "I did not mean to mock your death magic, Heda."

Nova slammed her palm on the table, "A warrior knows there is no magic to death! She kills as anyone else does," the Ice Queen's eyes slid to Clarke, blue eyes still cold even in the warmth of torchlight, "With whatever weapon she is given."

Clarke flinched inside at her words but refused to look away. Nova smiled, sharp toothed and wild.

"We drink," Lexa said, voice cutting through the silent tension, "To the death of the Mountain."

Lexa handed Clarke her glass, pressing the cup into her hand and Clarke could not decide whether the look Lexa gave her was solidarity or warning. A warrior fetched Nova her glass, but she shoved him away, pulling a tankard of wine from the table with her good hand and lifting it high. Lexa looked down the table and nodded once before drinking deeply, grounders following her lead. Clarke raised her glass and drank, the wine hot and thick on her tongue, her stomach twisting around it as it settled heavy inside her.

* * *

The second glass was easier to get down, and the third effortless.

Clarke was grateful for the alcohol's edge-softening. Though Polis was a peaceful city and it's people unwarlike, Clarke was learning that gatherings of grounder warriors never quite lost their tension, the air heavy with promised blood, even during celebration. Clarke's shoulders felt tight with the strain and Lexa's solemn silence to her right and Indra's ever shifting eyes at her left did not help.

Clarke and the Commander ate little, Clarke tearing a piece of flatbread to pieces between her fingers, Lexa pressing the tines of a makeshift fork into her thumb. Nova's eyes found them often, licking grease from her fingers like something feral, lips red with wine, and the sweep of her icy stare made them both tense. Lexa drained her cup, and filled her own and Clarke's again.

As dusk deepened, performers entertained the feasting grounders. Music- high, reed-like flutes and thundering drum circles filled the air, and fire breathers sent bursts of brilliant light through the dark. When the musicians stopped, a woman with dark hair braided down to her waist stepped forward with a long black box and pulled a gleaming sword from it.

"I thought only the city guards had weapons," Clarke leaned over to Indra.

Indra shook her head, fingers picking at the white flesh between fishbones before her.

"She is a sword dancer, not a warrior," Indra said with a snort. "It is a traditional performance in times of peace- turning a weapon to something beautiful," Indra finished with a roll of her eyes.

"You don't like these performances?"

"She would serve better on the battlefield," Indra replied, snapping a bone between her fingers, "Our times of peace do not last long enough for dancing."

The dancer approached the head of the table and held the sword out to Lexa. The Commander ran her thumb along the edge of the blade, slicing it across the point in a vicious motion that made Clarke wince. Lexa held her hand up, showing the blood that ran down her thumb and wrist and nodded to the dancer.

Clarke turned to Indra and the woman sighed, "To prove the blade is sharp and she dances with death."

Clarke nodded at the explanation, her attention back on Lexa and the dancer. The woman drew a wide circle in the dusty stone with her swordpoint, stepping into the center and falling into a warrior's stance. Lexa pressed her thumb to her mouth, blood staining her lips a deeper red and Clarke pulled her eyes away with an effort of will.

The dancer began to move; slow, sinuous movements that brought the blade against her skin as she twisted around it, working the blade and her body into every quickening circles. The sword flashed as she released it into the air, wrapping her body around it as it fell, pressing it against the stone as she tumbled over it, arching as she brought the point against her chest.

She wheeled and spun, flipped and balanced, sword singing through the air and running across her skin and not a single drop of blood falling.

With a tumble into a pointed pose that wrapped her leg high around the blade the dance ended, and her grounder audience cheered and beat their hands on the table. Lexa was pensive and still beside her, thumb still pressed against her lips.

The dancer caught Lexa's stare and approached the head of the table.

"Heda knows the steps to the dance?" she asked. Clarke watched the Commander curiously, Lexa's eyes darting to Clarke for only a moment before she nodded once to the dancer.

"Would the Heda honor me?" she held the blade out to Lexa.

Lexa looked as though she was engaged in some inner debate, jaw tensing before she sighed and stood, taking the blade and stalking to the sword ring. She unfastened her sash as she went, the fabric falling heavily on red stone, leaving Lexa looking bare and small. The dancer retrieved a second sword from her box and stood opposite the Commander, both of them falling into a low stance with an almost unnerving synchronicity.

"Is this part of a Commander's training?" Clarke asked Indra.

Indra's eyes flicked to Clarke briefly before going back to the Commander, "No."

Clarke knew better than to ask more.

The dancer reached a hand out to Lexa's face, and Lexa mimicked her, their palms resting against each other's necks and Clarke realized with a sudden startle that they were measuring each other's pulse, syncing their heartbeats in the stillness before the fight. With a swiftness that made Clarke grit her teeth, their swords swept together, a single metallic chime before they spun away from each other in a whirl of movement.

It was as much a dance as a fight, their hands running across each other as often as their blades did, their arms linking to twist each other around, backs arching. The steps were rehearsed, but the immediacy of their movements and the sharpness of the swords made their dance seem intimate and hungry.

As the dance became more intricate, Clarke could see the strain in Lexa's stance and knew that the long wound on her back was still troubling her. Despite the injury Lexa moved with a sort of hypnotic concentration, as if all of her senses had narrowed to this dance and she could not see beyond the circle of their movements. It made Clarke feel lonely to watch her so held apart, Clarke's foreignness at this feast crashing back on her as her only link to this world disappeared into rapid steps and twists and flashing swords. The girl who danced with her had darker hair and skin, was smaller and more fluid, but her eyes were a mirror of Lexa's own, holding the same focused intensity, their gaze refusing to break except when they spun past each other, swords singing, shoulders brushing.

The dance moved quicker, sparks striking at their blows, the strength behind their swings reminding the watchers that blood was only a misstep or hesitation away. Lexa crouched, swinging her blade in an arc at the dancer's feet, her partner leaping up and rolling over Lexa's back to land behind her. Clarke flinched at the move and the way Lexa's teeth grit against the pressure on her back, but she did not slow, straightening and spinning to parry a blow. Lexa mimicked the slide of her partner's blade along hers until their swords ghosted across the skin of their collarbones, each pressing the edge up against the other's throat. Clarke could see how the rise and fall of Lexa's breath pressed her skin against the blade and she realized her fingers were curled into such tight fists that they were going numb. The two stared into each other's eyes for another interminable beat before dropping their blades, the dancer bowing and Lexa turning swiftly away.

As grounders cheered and beat their fists on the table, Clarke unclenched her fingers and stared at Lexa. She looked unsettled, her eyes not quite in the present, breath heavy and knuckles still tight around the hilt of her blade. As she knelt to retrieve her sash a voice carried over the tumult.

"The Commander moves well," Nova said, speaking to her followers loud enough to be heard, "She had a good teacher- though she did not dance so well without her feet."

Lexa gave a wild roar, lunging out of the dance circle, blade held high. Grounders scattered away from her and Nova's guards jumped to their feet, but the Ice Queen sat still with a half-smile. Clarke made to step forward and Indra grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip. With a hiss through bared teeth, Lexa sank her blade into the table, the metal burying itself deep in the wood with a splintering sound. The grounders were silent. Lexa's shoulders heaved and Nova licked her lips.

Lexa's hands slid off the handle of the blade, and as she straightened all of her poise returned to her, rage buried deep beneath the glittering impassivity of her gaze.

"It is time to light the fire," the Commander said, chin lifting, "The dead must be appeased."

* * *

Lexa stood before the pyre, torch in hand and sash returned to her shoulder, all emotion bled from her expression, once again the eternal Commander. Darkness had finally truly fallen, torchlight illuminating only flashes of bright eyes and blood red stones in the blackness.

"In fire, we cleanse the pain of the past," Lexa began the familiar words. "In fire, we are released." Lexa's eyes found Clarke's for a moment before they swept away, "By the Goddess' will we have no warriors to lay on the pyre. Our enemies rot in their mountain," Clarke swallowed heavily as Lexa threw a fist in the air, "May their bodies never burn!"

"Burn," the grounders echoed, voices overlapping, beginning a low chant that spread through the group, the heavy tone resonating in Clarke's chest, "Burn. Burn. Burn."

At the height of their call, Lexa thrust the torch into the center of the pyre, stepping back as the primed wood rushed into a towering flame. Lexa screamed- half warcry, half howl, and the grounder's voices lifted with hers, a wild cacophony of sound as warriors began to leap and spin around the fire. As their cries died out, fast tempoed drum beats took their place, urging the pace of the dancers around the flames and Clarke felt drunk on sound and wine and fire. Lexa stalked towards her, silhouetted by flame, her path sure through the revelers, warpaint running and eyes bright. She took Clarke's arm, and there was a moment of perfect stillness at the grip of Lexa's fingers against her skin, and then suddenly they were moving; careening through dancers and whirling around the fire, following a dance without steps by instinct and the flow of their bodies together.

Clarke was breathless, lungs burning from movement and the heat of the fire, her skin burning wherever Lexa touched her, Lexa's green eyes the only steady thing in the dance. Clarke grabbed Lexa's sash, pulling them to an abrupt stop as she shifted her hands upwards, fingers interlocking at the nape of Lexa's neck, the skin there damp with sweat.

Lexa's chest heaved, equally breathless, her lips parted and red, and Clarke wanted her with an angry aching longing, knowing with that same hopeless sense that told her she would forever be the Mountain Killer, that she would also always want the One Who Ran with a desperation that ran deeper than her sense of betrayal, a desire more sure than her anger, a terrible need warring with her bitter mistrust.

Clarke pulled her eyes from Lexa's lips to her eyes. They had lost all the wildness of the dance and all the flat dismissal of the earlier evening and now they were just dark and damp and in pain. Lexa sighed, wrapping her fingers in Clarke's braids, fingers tangling tight as she pulled Clarke forward, pressing her forehead to Clarke's own.

"Weakness," Clarke breathed.

Lexa nodded against her, "Yes."

The fire snapped and sparked, the drums rumbled, and the dancing grounders howled, but Clarke and Lexa stood unmoving. They were not safe here, could not stay still forever, but for this moment they could be close and quiet. Lexa's fingers curled and uncurled in her hair, and Clarke traced lines down Lexa's neck.

The howling screams of the Ice Queen were in their ears as Lexa closed her eyes tight and pulled Clarke closer to her, smelling of anger and despair, wine and smoke.


	11. Chapter 11

Clarke woke to a gray dawn, a mouth thick from last night's wine, and her hair filled with ash.

Grounder warriors were sprawled on the stones around her- passed out in huddles, tumbled in piles of furs and cushions or stretched across stone, exhausted from a fire dance that had not ended until the last embers had faded with the stars.

The morning was cold, and the stones beneath the furs she lay on radiated a dull chill; the winter that had been promised what seemed like a lifetime ago finally descending with a bleached bare sky and a sharp taste of ice in the air.

Clarke flexed her fingers, shaking the ache out of her joints as she sat up, eyes narrowed against the glow of the gray morning.

Lexa lay beside her. Her body was curled in on itself, making her smaller and more angular, more bird-boned and young than when she was awake. The skin of her arms had goosebumps. Clarke pulled the red sash more fully over the Commander's sleeping body, her hand lingering at Lexa's hip for a moment. The morning was quiet enough that Clarke could pretend they were in stasis; the coldsnap of the impending winter shifting everything into a pale and faded dimension where no one could judge her hand against Lexa's body, not even Clarke herself. Lexa sighed in her sleep and Clarke withdrew her hand.

With a suppressed groan Clarke got to her feet, her bones aching and tired calves protesting.

There was someone else awake.

Nova sat at the end of the long table, reclined in the Commander's chair, her legs thrown haphazardly across the arms. The red mane of her hair was even wilder in the aftermath of the celebration, and the ash smudged into her cheeks made the lines of her face that much sharper. She had a bowl of grapes in front of her and while Clarke watched she sat tossing them with an unnerving accuracy into a cup some ten feet away.

"Good morning, Heda," Nova said, her concentration still on the grapes. The arc of flying fruit was weirdly hypnotic to Clarke's tired mind.

"Clarke is fine," she responded, voice gravel in her throat.

Nova stopped, and the Ice Queen's eyes turned to her with a shift in intensity so sudden that it made Clarke's stomach drop.

"Heda," Nova said, and the edge to her voice made it sound like a command. "Do not be a coward. You will disappoint me."

Clarke glared, trying to find her feet in this conversation, "I don't think I care about that."

Nova's eyes remained piercing, "And the Commander's disappointment? Do you care about that?"

Clarke's shoulders tensed. "No," she said, and she could no longer feel whether she was lying; whether the bitter taste on her tongue was anger or regret.

Nova smiled. "Good," she said and Clarke frowned.

"We have much to discuss."

"No, we don't."

Nova's smile never faltered, and Clarke felt the distinct horror that the Ice Queen's sharp and beautiful face was just a mask for something ancient and cruel, a disguise that might melt or be torn away at any moment. Clarke shook the impression away with effort as Nova admonished her, "You cannot tell me that you are not curious."

"I'll live," Clarke scoffed, with more bravado than she felt.

"Is this something the Skaikru do," Nova asked, tilting her head, "Tempt fate with their words? For people who do not believe in the eternity of souls, you are very quick to risk them."

"What do you know about my people?" Clarke demanded.

"I know that you have ways of killing that look like magic to the foolish. I know that despite your power you can be killed. I know you have managed to talk your way out of death many times," Nova replied, counting on the fingers of her remaining hand, "I know you destroyed your enemies to the last child."

Clarke gritted her teeth, "You sound impressed."

"I am," Nova said, "You are worthy of your titles. But you are still weak, Heda. You allow those who have betrayed you to live."

Clarke felt like she was walking a minefield, parts of her aching for the explosion to finally happen, other parts terrified- wary of a blast that might take out far more than just her.

"I don't need vengeance," Clarke finally said.

"You are more like the Commander than you think," Nova said, "Merciful at all the wrong times." The Ice Queen shook her head, smile still at the corner of her mouth, "Though I have never come across a right time for it."

"I wouldn't call the Commander merciful. Lexa lives by jus drein jus daun."

"And yet she left the Mountain alive," Nova replied, running her good hand across the stump of her right wrist.

"I think that was more tactics than compassion," Clarke ground out.

"It is true that the Commander allows reason to rule her. You should be wary of that. She will need you at this conclave, and she will use you. You have seen that she will say you are an ally, but will make plans as though you are her enemy. She will call you Heda one day and her subject the next. She will ask you to be her confidante but her preference towards you will not stop her from doing what she decides she must."

"I know that," Clarke said. "We do what we have to-"

"To survive. Yes," Nova broke in, "I am glad we understand each other so well."

Clarke balked at the comparison, nervous that anything in her could be kin to whatever lurked just beneath the Ice Queen's smile.

"You seem to know the commander well," Clarke said.

"I do not know her well," Nova replied, "I know her best."

"Because you killed Costia?" Clarke demanded, eager to be on the offensive.

Nova smiled like she tasted something sweet. The morning felt colder on Clarke's skin, and she was reminded of the way the outer walls of the Ark had felt when she pressed her hand against them; the frozen threat of annihilation just a few inches away.

"Because I killed Costia," Nova said. The Ice Queen stood, pushing away from the Commander's chair with a suddenness that made Clarke want to jump back, the defensive impulse only stifled with effort.

"The Commander was not always so bent on peace," Nova began, and Clarke could tell the Ice Queen was beginning a speech. If Clarke wasn't anxious to hear about her history with the Commander, she'd be tempted to walk away, but Nova might be her only chance for information on Lexa's past. Nova picked up a table knife as she passed it, twisting its point against her wrapped wrist. Clarke widened her stance, crossing her arms and digging in. Whatever tactics of intimidation Nova possessed, Clarke was determined to appear unaffected.

"She fought her way through my country," Nova said, dragging the blade across the ancient wood of the table, scoring a ragged line as she advanced, "She braved the winter and led her people against my armies, spilled more blood in war than has been seen since the bombs ended the world. Her war lasted months, and her people died by the hundreds- lost to the cold and the hunger and the swords of my warriors. She brought her revenge with her, whole villages were massacred and ancient forests burned where her armies marched, and my people knew suffering."

Nova's face took on a rapturous quality, a kind of hazy bloodlust that made her words slower, the movement of her hand on the knife more sinuous and sensual.

"When she walked into my throne room, the blood of my warriors on her hands, I thought I had seen the Goddess descend, ready to bring in the new world with fire. I was ready to fight, to kill or die that I might be part of that spirit of conquest and war," Nova dug the knife into the wood, twisting it deeper by sheer forced of will, anger contorting her face, "But then I saw the Commander fail."

The Ice Queen's eyes were icy, a flat and impassive blue like ice that had been frozen since the beginning of the world, her voice just as cold.

"When she saw the body of her lover, the body I had hung in pieces above my throne, knowing she would come to me, she lost her will. She demanded peace from me, an end to the bloodshed. I could not believe my ears, that the warlord who had bathed in the blood of her own people and mine would falter now. I forced her to combat and though her sword bested mine, it was not a deity I fought- just a lost lover, weak and sentimental. She took my crown, but not my head, stole the hand that had taken her lover's spirit, but not my life."

Nova caressed the hilt of the knife, the blade standing upright in the wood with the force she had pressed it with.

"She commanded my alliance and the rest of the tribes followed because they believed her strong. But I knew the truth- that I had seen her weak, an affront to the Goddess and our people. I had seen the Commander's spirit fail at the moment of victory, and I knew this flaw would consume her. I needed only to wait," Nova looked at Clarke with something like hunger, like she couldn't decide whether to pull her apart or devour her, "To wait for you."

Clarke had been wary of the web she felt closing around her since she entered Polis, waiting to be confronted with an adversary as she turned every corner. She'd expected to feel some relief to the anxiety once she was finally faced with it- the danger imminent but known. Confronted with Nova, wielding the specter of Costia's ghost and Lexa's bloody past, intent on twisting Clarke to her purpose, Clarke felt the noose of this web suddenly pull far too tight.


End file.
